


Barbarism Begins at Home

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: BDSM, Barebacking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Needle play, Needles, PWP, Painplay, play piercing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Zach isn’t an impulsive person by nature, but once he decides he wants something he wants it yesterday. Like he wants this now. He’s thought about it so many times the fantasy feels like a well-worn track in his mind, something smooth and well-honed, something lathed.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, Zach and Chris and needles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barbarism Begins at Home

The first thing Zach notices about the room is that it’s darker than usual. 

Chris has drawn the blinds, though Zach can see thin lines of amber-toned evening light seeping through the slats. There’s a lamp lit over in the corner and the bed is impeccably made. He’s pretty sure Chris rolled out of it after a nap not too terribly long ago, so the crisp sheets and hospital corners feel like a luxurious concession to order. But Chris is like this when they play, likes to dot his Is and cross his Ts. It’s kind of hilariously out of character, but Chris takes it seriously enough that Zach would feel like a jerk for making a big deal out of it.

There are other things about the bedroom, things that are out of place. The nightstand has been pushed over next to Zach’s side of the bed and is laden with supplies: a pristine white towel, snowy pads of gauze. A fresh razor and a can of shaving cream. A bottle that Zach can practically smell already. He has a near-Pavlovian response to the scent of rubbing alcohol these days; it makes shots at the doctor’s office more thrilling than they probably should be. Well, the smell plus the needles. Because that’s the next thing laid out on Chris’s smorgasbord: a row of silver needles, capped with bright plastic. The sight of them makes Zach’s pulse pound. 

“You ready?” 

Zach twitches. Chris, who’s just come out of the bathroom, chuckles at his obvious disquiet. He’s drying his hands on a washcloth. He steps close to Zach and slips an arm around his waist. 

“You’re shaking,” Chris says. 

“Oh yeah? I, uh, had a double espresso before I came over.” Zach runs a hand back through his hair. 

“A likely story. Now how about you hop up on the bed and we get this show on the road? Unless you’re tapping out.”

Zach rolls his eyes. “Ever the romantic, Pine. Jesus. And no, I’m not tapping out.” 

Chris yanks him closer, and Zach tightens his fingers around Chris’s bicep reflexively, as if that could hold Chris off. Zach always seems to forget just how strong Chris is until they’re in a position like this one. Now, Chris is squeezing Zach’s ribs and making him gasp for breath, laughing at the high-pitched noises Zach makes. He splays a hand around the base of Zach’s skull and holds him fast as he leans in and takes a neat bite of the skin on the side of Zach’s neck. 

“Fuck,” Zach says, as the pain blooms. Chris’s lips are teasingly gentle in the wake of his teeth. Above the collar, they try to go easy on each other, but Zach’s skin seems to bruise like ripe fruit when Chris is involved. 

“Kiss me,” Chris says, pulling back. He stands there with his eyes half-lidded and makes Zach meet him more than halfway, his mouth slack. He’ll make Zach do the work now, make him lick and bite in turn, until he’s had enough and pushes Zach backwards. 

“Take your shirt off,” Chris says, his voice low and rich. Zach obeys, tossing his shirt aside. He’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and it’s no secret that he’s hard in them already. He reaches down and spreads the shiny fabric taut over his dick where it’s tucked into his briefs. He palms the length of it and watches Chris watch him, gaze steady, tongue darting out between his lips. 

“You _are_ ready for it,” Chris says, sounding impressed. 

Zach nods. He can’t help but be ready; Chris has been talking it up for weeks, driving Zach up the wall. Zach isn’t an impulsive person by nature, but once he decides he wants something he wants it yesterday. Like he wants this now. He’s thought about it so many times the fantasy feels like a well-worn track in his mind, something smooth and well-honed, something lathed. Chris over him on the bed, the scent of alcohol cutting through the soft smells of their sweat, their skin. Chris will look so studious, hovering, needle poised. He’ll frown, knit his brow, and then he’ll push in-- 

“Now,” he says. “Come on, Chris, I want to do it now.” 

Chris laughs again. “So fucking eager, baby,” he says. “Hmmm. I shouldn’t be so nice to you.” 

“Yes, you should. You absolutely should.” Zach lets himself fall back onto the bed, lifting his hips to tug his shorts off. 

“Keep those on,” Chris says when Zach gets to his briefs. He sits next to Zach on the bed and cups his dick through the grey cotton. “Look at this,” he says, that impressed tone back again. It still gets Zach, that tone. That Chris can take so much pleasure in the simplest things, in orchestration and aesthetics and staging. The bed neat as a pin, the bulge of Zach’s erection distorting the line of his underwear. Chris thinks it’s almost hotter to look at than Zach naked, or so he’s told him on more than one occasion. 

Chris settles over Zach’s supine body, propped up on the pillows with enough of a lap for Chris to settle into, ass nestled against Zach’s crotch. Chris is shirtless too, wearing a pair of thin pajama pants, and the fabric leaves just as little to the imagination as Zach’s briefs do. Zach rests his hands on Chris’s hips and grinds up into him, Chris indulging him for just a second before catching his wrists and lifting them up over his head. 

“Nice try.” He leans down and kisses Zach on the cheek. “Keep these up here from now on. Yeah?”

Zach nods. He crosses them behind his head, the better to watch the action.

“Good. You know, I thought about restraints,” Chris says casually. “But I thought that might be...a lot.” 

Zach nods again. “Maybe,” he says. But the thought of being restrained--being at the mercy of Chris and those needles over on the nightstand--it doesn’t sound half bad, actually. 

Chris rolls his hips and makes Zach curse. “See, you say ‘maybe,’ but I’m pretty sure your dick is on board.” 

Zach groans. “My dick is always on board with you,” he says. 

“Aw. That’s sweet,” Chris says, grinning fit to burst. He stretches out alongside Zach, running his knuckles along Zach’s cheekbone. “As a token of my appreciation, can I poke you full of holes?” 

“Ugh, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Chris backs up off the bed, dropping kisses on Zach’s chest as he goes. “One last thing,” he says as he stands, disappearing into the bathroom again. He emerges a minute later carrying a steaming bowl in both hands. He sets it down on the nightstand with the rest of their supplies and perches on the bed, on Zach’s other side now. 

Zach scoots over to accommodate Chris, swallowing past a new-found lump in his throat. Chris’s every movement feels deliberate, and with all the gravity of some high ceremony he takes up the razor and shaving cream. He chews on his bottom lip contemplatively, staring hard at Zach’s bare chest. 

“Still want it here?” he asks. 

Zach nods. “I want...I want to watch you do it. I want to see everything.” 

Chris strokes Zach’s chest hair gently, up above his nipple on the right hand side. “You will,” he says. “I promise.” He squirts a dollop of the white foam onto Zach’s chest, dabbing at it with the pads of his fingers. The cream feels soft and cool, and Zach feels his nipples harden, a wave of gooseflesh running over his bare skin. He gasps, and Chris smiles. 

Chris dips the razor in the bowl of warm water he’s brought in from the bathroom, taps it on the side of the bowl to get the excess off. These are the only sounds in the room, Zach realizes. The tap-tap-tap of the razor on the bowl, their breathing, the intermittent click that’s a quirk of the ceiling fan. 

Chris presses the razor to Zach’s skin, and Zach takes a breath. This isn’t going to hurt, obviously, and he’s shaved a million times. But the atmosphere in the room is fraught, and Zach can’t help but get carried away. 

“Okay, here goes,” Chris says. He draws the blade down, the skin exposed in its wake new and pink as a baby’s. He works his way across the meat of Zach’s right pec, and as he does Zach lies still and listens: to the fan again, to Chris’s breathing, to the soft snick of the razorblade clearing a path. Chris rinses the blade after every stroke, makes a joke about having to switch halfway to deal with Zach’s thicket of hair and then actually does it. 

“I think this one’s getting dull,” he says. “I don’t wanna nick you.” 

“That’s ironic,” Zach says, already a little dopey with the moment. 

When Chris is done, Zach’s left with two squares of smooth skin on either side of his chest. It looks ridiculous, but oddly clinical too, like he’s being prepped for a delicate procedure. 

“Okay,” Chris says. “I’m gonna--” He nods over at the nightstand. 

“Yeah,” Zach moans. 

Chris cups his dick through his underwear one more time, and Zach can’t stifle a whine. “Chris,” he says pleadingly. He’s not entirely certain what he’s asking for. 

Chris leans forward and pushes Zach’s hair back from his forehead, grabbing a handful and kissing Zach messily. “Fuck, you look good,” he says.

“God, please,” Zach whines, trying to thrust up against him.

“Shh,” Chris says. “After, okay?” 

Zach huffs, settling back onto the pillows with no small measure of chagrin. Chris has busied himself with the bottle of alcohol, sloshing some onto a cotton ball. The astringent smell permeates the room, and the sense memory shocks Zach with its vividness. It’s sterility, a cold white room. Probing fingers and silver instruments, and the hot kiss of pain. 

Chris drags the sodden cotton over Zach’s skin and he sighs. The liquid is cold, and as Chris works his way across Zach’s chest he leaves an icy burn in his wake. He swipes alcohol onto Zach’s nipples for good measure and laughs as Zach arches into the sensation. 

“All ready,” Chris mutters. “God, you’re going to look so good when I’m done with you.” 

Butterflies have started up in Zach’s stomach. His palms are sweating, and he disobeys Chris’s mandate about his hands to wipe them on the sheets. Chris doesn’t seem to notice; he’s busy poring over the selection, putting on a pair of green nitrile gloves. They snap like gum against his wrists and Chris flexes his fingers, smiling down at his hands. 

“Here we go,” he says if to himself, picking something up. “This looks like a good place to start.” 

Zach sits up a little. “How big is it?” he asks hurriedly. 

He tries to get a look at the hub on the needle--the colored plastic corresponds to the size, but Zach can’t remember which is which, or if bigger numbers are bigger or smaller needles, and it’s all such basic information and yet entirely out of his grasp right now. 

Chris holds up his choice. The hub is bright orange, and that might be 20 or it might be 22, or it might be something else entirely. Zach feels a stab of panic. 

“Chris, wait. _Wait._ How big is it?” His voice is tight and embarrassingly squeaky. He tries to sit up all the way to get a better look at what Chris is holding, but Chris sets it back down so Zach can’t see and shoves him gently but firmly back onto the pillows. 

“Big enough,” he says. “Now shh, will you? And breathe. Right? You’ve got to remember to breathe or it won’t work.” 

Zach sucks in a sobby sort of breath. He screws his eyes shut and then opens them again, looking up and watching the phosphenes dance across the ceiling. 

“Do you want me to count?” 

“Huh?” Zach’s head is swimming. All he can think about is how big that damn needle is, and how small and soft he feels here on the bed, ready to be pinned. “Count what?” 

“Like, to three. And then I’ll do it on three.” 

Oh. “Maybe for the first one? Just til--” 

“Okay,” Chris says. He seems calm, Zach thinks. Chris can be a ball of nervous energy; he can be so frenetic that Zach wants to force feed him sedatives, a whirlwind of wild gesticulation, of scrapes and spills. But now, he’s like stone, face the picture of concentration just like Zach imagined. It feels good to be the thing Chris is studying. If the needles give Chris insight somehow, then so be it. Zach’s always on board, after all. 

There’s a prick at his chest, and he gasps. 

“Not yet,” Chris says. “I said I’d count to three.” 

“Okay,” Zach says. 

“All right,” Chris says. “I’m gonna do five per side to start. In and out, like we talked about.” His voice is rough, and when Zach glances down he sees how hard Chris is. 

“I’m ready,” Zach says, and Chris smiles. 

“On three, then.” 

Zach nods. He’s not sure whether or not to watch, but in the end he does. His extremities feel distant, and he’s vaguely aware of his own dick, still straining against his briefs. These things all seem immaterial, though. All that matters is Chris’s hand, and the bevelled tip of the needle sitting flush with Zach’s skin. 

“One,” Chris says. The hand not holding the needle is braced against Zach’s shoulder, and Chris moves his thumb back and forth. It’s probably just a nervous tic, or an attempt at soothing Zach’s nerves, but now it seems to heighten everything, a soft touch in counterpoint to what’s coming. 

“Two,” Chris says. “Breathe, baby. You’re holding your breath.” 

Zach breathes obediently. Chris watches his chest rise and fall a few times. He stares at the flutter of Zach’s heart beneath his ribs and Zach watches too, sees his fear and excitement projected on his own skin. Chris turns his attention back to the needle, and Zach follows his gaze there too. 

“Three,” Chris says. 

There’s what seems like a millisecond’s delay in which Zach is aware of an exquisite pressure. Chris’s hands are obscuring what he’s doing, so when the pain hits it’s completely disorienting. All Zach knows it that Chris’s fingers are on him and that he hurts. He cries out; he can’t help it, and Chris glances up at his face and smiles, looking exhilarated already. 

“In and out,” he says. “You wanna see?” 

Zach nods. The pain feels like a brand, throbbing with the beat of his heart. When he looks down he lets out a pained whine; it feels like the only appropriate response to what he sees. His skin is pink and irritated looking, though aside from the piercing Chris’s handling of it has been all too careful. There’s the bright plastic hub, and directly above it a narrow cylindrical bulge under his skin, a distortion that feels especially obscene to Zach for the way it ends: the rest of the needle’s length, gleaming silver in the low light and terminating at the evil-looking bevel. 

“Oh god,” Zach says. “God, it’s--it’s in me.” 

“Yeah,” says Chris. “It is. How does it feel?” 

“It hurts,” Zach says, because it does. He still doesn’t know how big the needle is, but it seems huge. 

“It looks so good, Zach. _God._ Do you like it?” Chris can’t touch himself with his gloved hands, but he looks like he wants to, shifting back and forth impatiently. “You want more?” 

“Yeah. Yes,” Zach says. He lies back again and closes his eyes. He’s not sure he needs to watch now. He just wants to lie back and let it happen, let the pain rise like a tide to carry him off. Chris is good at making that happen. Chris is so good. 

Chris keeps counting. If Zach wanted to he could keep track of their progress that way, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind for it. Chris moves slowly but deliberately, and as the pain in his chest grows Zach finds that he can no longer focus on the specifics. There’s a baseline throb, punctuated here and there with fresh flares that explode behind Zach’s eyes like fireworks. Chris is talking to him too, whispering endearments and encouragements that slip through Zach’s mind like silk. 

He doesn’t really notice when Chris moves to the other side of his chest, to the second place he shaved. Eventually, though, he realizes that the countdowns have stopped, that he hasn’t felt Chris’s gloved fingertips on his skin for awhile, and that the fireworks have died down into a constant slow burn. They’re done, he realizes. Which means--

“Open your eyes,” Chris whispers. 

Zach opens them. He pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down at his chest. What he sees makes him cry out again, in both pain and wonder. There are twin rows of needles on either side of his chest, perfectly spaced like they’ve been inserted by a particularly efficient machine. Chris’s mouth is open in a wide pink o, and he looks as transported as Zach feels. 

“Jesus, it looks so good,” Chris says reverently.

Zach nods. It does look good. But as he stares at his own wounded flesh he draws a shaky breath, and feels suddenly on the verge of tears. “Oh my God,” he says. “You did it. You...you put them in me.” 

He’s babbling, but he doesn’t really care. He can’t control it. Something about the drama of it all, he’ll decide later. Intellectualize it all you want; there’ll still be a vestige of the kind of good sense that typically dissuades humans from sticking pointy things into their bodies on purpose. 

But now he hurts, and his dick is still hard, and all of a sudden he’s at a complete loss for what’s supposed to come next. 

Chris comes to lie next to him, pressing his own dick to Zach’s hip and thrusting slightly. He’s taken his gloves off, and he finds Zach’s hand and takes it in both of his. When he speaks, he’s breathless. “Yeah, I put them in you,” he says. “You should have seen them slide in, Zach. So easy. And God, you arched your back for it like you were offering yourself up.” 

“I did?” 

“Uh huh.” Chris kisses him on the side of the mouth. 

“I didn’t know I was,” Zach says dreamily. 

“It was so hot. I should have taken a picture.” He kisses Zach’s hand, then moves it down to his chest. “Here,” Chris says. “Feel.” He runs Zach’s hand lightly over the piercings. The needlepoints prick at his fingertips, and he can feel the shafts of the needles under his skin. It’s a little sickening, but as he does it he spreads his legs and thinks hard about Chris’s hand on his dick. 

“It hurts,” Zach says again. 

“Mmm,” Chris says, tracing along the shafts. He presses down on one of them and rolls it lightly under Zach’s skin, and the sensation makes Zach shudder. “It looks like it hurts. But you like it, don’t you.” 

Zach nods, feeling blood rush up into his face. 

“Of course you do, look how hard your fucking dick is. You were practically leaking by the time I got halfway done.” He growls, biting at Zach’s shoulder. “I want to fuck you like this,” Chris says. “Can I?” 

Zach lets his head loll on the pillow. “Mmm.” 

“That a yes?” 

“Yes.” 

Chris makes a happy noise in reply and palms Zach’s cheek, kissing his slack mouth. Zach lets him, lying still. He keeps his hands on his chest, lets his fingers play over the needles like they’re the strings of an instrument. Chris tugs on Zach’s nipples carefully, the stretch shifting the needles just so, and Zach squirms against Chris on the bed. 

When Chris is done undressing them and opening Zach up he maneuvers them so Zach is on his lap, the better to both look at his chest and avoid undue contact. When he bottoms out Zach lets his eyes close, feels his mouth fall open. Chris was right before, it is a lot. His chest beats like he has twin hearts mounted on its surface, and every throb is matched by a pulse of pleasure down to his dick. Zach is wired; he can’t tell pleasure from pain anymore, if in fact he ever could. 

Chris is doing most of the work of holding him up, balancing Zach on his thighs and wrapping his arms around him, braced so they make a kind of frame to take the weight of Zach’s upper body. They don’t move much for awhile; Chris’s breath gets increasingly shuddery, more so when Zach sighs and shifts on him, presses a hand to his stomach like he can feel Chris in his guts. A thin film of sweat beads up on their skin and as their bodies ebb and flow together they make sticky sounds, like kissing. 

Chris moans, as if the relative stillness is painful. He runs his palm carefully over the needles, taking up one of the hubs between thumb and forefinger and twisting it gently. 

The sensation makes Zach cringe. He can’t put a name to it; it feels wrong but perfect too, and he somehow hadn’t considered Chris doing things to the needles, but it makes sense that he’d feel free to manipulate them, sheathed in Zach just like his dick is. He moves down the line, plucking at each hub like he’s testing its resilience. Zach throws his head back and invites the grate of Chris’s teeth along his jugular while Chris toys with his handiwork. Zach is so hard. Chris thrusts; he can’t help it. Zach guesses it must be a lot for him too. 

When Chris slides the first needle out, Zach stares hard at the beads of blood left in its wake, the way they sit static for just a moment before gravity overwhelms them and they slide down into the hair below. He hadn’t thought he’d bleed. Apparently Chris hadn’t either, because he looks up at Zach with something like disbelief on his face. 

“Oh,” Chris says, and thrusts into Zach again, slipping another needle out as he does so. He lifts Zach up just a fraction and lowers him back down so that their thighs smack wetly together and the force shakes the fresh blood free in a bright, narrow path down Zach’s chest.

“Look at you,” Chris says. 

He ducks his head then, pressing his cheek to Zach’s chest and fingering a third needle. When he draws it out Zach shudders, and Chris kisses his wound, ghosting over Zach’s slick skin. When he looks up his lips and chin are daubed with carmine, and Zach has to taste. He takes Chris’s cheeks between his hands and licks at him, his own blood sweet by association. Chris kisses him hard, reaches down between them and slips the needles out one by one. Every time he slides one free it feels like he’s moving in Zach’s ass too. 

When he’s done they part and smile at each other, teeth rimmed in red, and Zach thinks that he’d let Chris drink as much as he wanted. He feels a little mournful for the loss of his adornments, but he’s happy about the blood. And Chris looks ecstatic, so it balances out, doesn’t it?

“You,” Chris says, “are the fucking best.” 

Zach laughs and laughs, surprising himself with the ferocity of it. He licks Chris’s lips clean of his blood because he can’t leave well enough alone. “Fuck me,” he says. “I want to come on your dick.” 

Red is dripping down his chest into the hair on his belly, though Zach guesses it’s less than it looks like because Chris just looks on lovingly instead of seeming worried. He trails his hand through it, down to Zach’s hip where he grips around the bone and uses the leverage to lift Zach up off the bed all together. He lowers him back down again, making him gasp. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

“Yeah, you want to come on my cock, baby?” Chris’s voice is low and desperate. He’s close, he has to be, but he’ll hold out til the bitter end if he needs to. 

Zach nods wildly, and keeps nodding til Chris insinuates his thumb in at the corner of his mouth, tugging Zach’s lower lip away from his gums and letting it slap back wetly. Zach tries to chase it with his teeth and misses. He reaches out, hand darting like a fish. He grabs Chris around the wrist and brings his hand back up, biting at the webbing between Chris’s thumb and forefinger. 

Chris hisses in pain. “Beg me,” he says. He’s got his free hand around Zach’s waist, the same way the evening started. He holds him still so Zach can’t get enough purchase to move, holds him down on his dick until Zach can’t take him any deeper. There’s a dull ache in his belly as Chris fucks up his angle on purpose, and Zach feels himself spasm around him. 

“Motherfucker,” Chris says. 

Zach claws at Chris’s shoulder. _“Chris.”_

“No, I told you. Fucking beg me.” 

“Dammit,” Zach says. “Please.”

Chris rolls Zach’s dick up against his belly, thumbing over his slit. He pulls out a fraction of an inch. Zach’s muscles clench in anticipation, but then Chris stills. “Again,” he says. 

_“Please.”_

“Hmm.” 

Chris lowers his mouth to Zach’s clavicle and sucks until Zach curses. He pulls off with a pop and flips Zach deftly onto his back without withdrawing. Zach hooks a leg up onto Chris’s shoulder and laughs as Chris wraps his arm around his thigh, rubbing his cheek along the inside, biting at the pale flesh above Zach’s knee. 

“Touch your chest,” Chris says raggedly. “Just--you know. The holes. Play with ‘em.” 

The needlemarks are already closing up; they’ll clean them later in the shower and watch a rusty swirl disappear down the drain. Chris will hold him close and tell him about other sharp things he wants to put inside Zach, into all his softest parts. But now Zach runs his hands over the twin rows of pinpricks, through his tacky, flaking blood. He watches Chris’s face and sees a softness there too, and when he meets Chris’s eyes and tells him _take a good look, look at what you did_ Chris turns his head, screws his eyes shut, and comes. Zach’s thigh muffles the noises he makes, but Zach can feel his lips moving. 

He tries to get a hand on his own dick, but Chris smacks it gently away and wraps his own hand around Zach instead. He shrinks out of Zach, dick shiny with come and lube, and he leans forward to push Zach into the mattress, fingers catching in his matted chest hair. Chris tugs, and Zach hurts and fucks Chris’s hand and shoots onto his own stomach to add to the mess. 

In the aftermath, Chris lowers his body carefully over Zach’s aching chest. The air is ferrous and cloying, and Zach thinks it smells like love.


End file.
